Trouble at High Tide

by Jessica Fletcher Donald Bain

  I glanced at the people in the room and wondered what their relationships had been with Alicia. While Tom had boasted of her talents and Agnes had said that he was devoted to Alicia, I didn’t get the impression that she inspired the same admiration and loyalty from the other members of her family. Madeline had called her the “favorite child” in an ironic tone, and Stephen had barely spoken to her at lunch. Both had argued with her at the party. Of course, family jealousies and squabbles rarely translate to murder, but these were the musings that occupied my tired mind until the police informed me that I would be expected at headquarters later in the morning.

  “Please tell me again, Mrs. Fletcher, what time you happened to come upon the body.”

  The constable sat at a small table at police headquarters, a lined pad in front of him, as he wrote down my statement. A walkie-talkie perched on the shoulder of his black vest crackled, strong voices breaking through the static every so often. He reached up to turn down the volume. A blue-and-white checkerboard stripe and a blue patch with white letters on the front and back of the vest identified him as POLICE. Worn over a light blue shirt with dark pants, it was the uniform seen on most of the men and women I encountered at the building outside Hamilton.

  “I told you that it must have been about two fifteen or two twenty,” I said. “I know because I looked at my watch before changing my clothes and leaving the cottage. And at that time, it was two o’clock.”

  “And why did you decide to take a walk at two in the morning?”

  “I had fallen asleep in the porch swing after I came down from the party. When I woke up and went inside, intending to go to bed, I found myself fully awake. Rather than spend a restless night, I decided to take a walk in the hope a little exercise would make me sleepy again.”

  “So you found the body at two in the morning. Is that right?”

  “Two fifteen or two twenty,” I corrected.

  “Two twenty, then. Do you frequently take walks in the middle of the night?”

  “I can’t say that I do, but—”

  “How long did you know the deceased?”

  “I only met her yesterday.”

  “And her name was?”

  “Alicia. I’m not certain anyone ever told me her last name. She’s Judge Thomas Betterton’s niece.”

  “How old was she?”

  “I really don’t know. In her early twenties, I presume.”

  “And what was she wearing?”

  “She wore a white sundress at the party, high in the front and low in the back. I think she was in the same dress when she was killed.”

  “Shoes?”

  “I didn’t see her shoes.”

  “We found a pair of high-heeled wedges at the top of the stairs leading down to the beach.”

  “Perhaps they were hers.”

  “Could you identify them as hers?”

  “No. Definitely not.”

  “And what did you do when you discovered the body of Ms. Betterton?”

  “I ran back to the cottage and called the police.”

  “Did you touch the body?”

  “No. I know better than that.”

  “Did you see anyone else on the beach?”

  “No.”

  “No one at all?”

  “It was the middle of the night and it was dark. I suppose it’s possible the murderer was nearby, but I didn’t see any evidence of anyone else. I couldn’t see any footprints in the sand. The water was washing away my own footprints as I stood there. I was in a hurry to report the crime before the ocean pulled the body away. I told all this to the officers who responded to the scene last night.”

  “My inspector always likes us to interview witnesses more than once. You may have to tell your story to more people over the next few days.”

  “My story? I’m not telling you a story, Constable. I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Poor choice of words on my part. Sorry, ma’am.”

  “That’s all right,” I said, immediately contrite that I had answered so sharply. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. I may be a bit testy.”

  “Perfectly understandable.”

  Another officer walked into the room. “The superintendent wants to see you about the press conference, Valentree.”

  “Please tell him I’ll be there right away. We’re just about finished for now.” The constable closed his notepad and looked at me. “We will want you to stay in Bermuda for the time being. Is that going to be a problem?”

  “I’m supposed to be here for the week,” I said. “I don’t know how much longer I can stay after that.”

  “We’ll start with the week, and then decide whether we need you to stay longer. We can reach you at the judge’s home?”

  “I’d like to ask my host if he’d prefer it if I move to a hotel. This is a terribly upsetting time for him and we don’t know each other very well. He may want only his family around him. I would certainly understand if he feels that way.”

  “We already spoke with Judge Betterton and he didn’t express any objections to you staying in his cottage.”

  “Nevertheless, I’d like to make the offer. If I do move to a hotel, I’ll be sure to let you know where I’m staying. I need to cancel my flight plans, too.”

  “Here’s my card. Please call me or any of the other officers in the Serious Crime Unit if you remember anything that might be helpful.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said, tucking his card in a pocket of my shoulder bag, where I’d already placed cards from other police officers I’d spoken with over the last eight hours.

  He came around and held the chair for me as I stood.

  “Is the press conference about Alicia’s murder?” I asked.

  “That and the others,” he said.

  “Do the police believe they’re linked?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say,” he replied, escorting me from the room. “If you go out the front door there will be a blue and yellow police car waiting. The officer can drive you back to Judge Betterton’s. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “You’re very welcome, Constable Valentree.”

  He clattered down the flight of stairs and disappeared around the corner. I followed more slowly, holding on to the railing. I was tired, operating on the two or three hours of sleep I’d managed to snatch between police interviews.

  Headquarters was full of activity, officers rushing up and down the stairs as I attempted to make my way out after my police interview. I paused on the second floor where a crowd was pressing into a room. Several people carried large cameras on tripods. Most wore badges hanging from strings around their necks that identified them as members of the news media. At first, I was amazed that so many press people were able to get to Bermuda so quickly, and then it occurred to me that most of them had probably already been there covering the serial killings. Although a nap was definitely on my agenda for that afternoon, I was curious to find out what the official position was on Alicia’s murder and whether the authorities believed it was related to the other murders.

  I joined a group of reporters who were pushing their way into the room. While I wasn’t carrying any media credentials, the officers manning the doors were so overwhelmed by the numbers attempting to enter that they couldn’t check everyone’s identification, and I managed to slip past them.

  Inside, a phalanx of video cameras and lights took up what little space there was on either side of the door. I squeezed over to a side wall, took an empty chair midway down a row, and tried to appear official, taking a pad and pen from my shoulder bag while reporters around me tapped into their cell phones or notebook computers, or held up miniature video cameras to capture the scene.

  The police commissioner whom I’d met only briefly at the party the night before stood in the front of the room at a podium; several other officials were seated at tables on either side. Behind the commissioner was a large screen on which was projected the insignia of the Bermuda Police Service. I sp
otted Constable Valentree and another officer approaching the commissioner and hoped they wouldn’t glance in my direction. As a precaution, I pulled out the pink ball cap Tom had sent to my home and put it on, lowering the peak to hide my face.

  The commissioner tapped on his microphone and cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, and waited for the room to quiet. He was a black man in his late forties with a shaved head and a narrow mustache. Standing erect in his dress uniform with his officer’s cap tucked under one arm, he shuffled a sheaf of papers in front of him. After an audible sigh, he began again. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said to a chorus of camera clicks and flashes, “I’m Bermuda Police Service Commissioner Leonard Hanover, FCMI. We have some information for you. Please hold your questions until our literature has been distributed and you’ve had a chance to hear our official statement, after which we will endeavor to answer some of your inquiries.”

  Constable Valentree went up the center aisle and handed out copies of the commissioner’s statement to the first person seated in each row, who passed the papers down the line. When Valentree reached the row before mine, I shifted in my seat and turned to the gentleman next to me so that my back was toward the constable.

  “Did you have a question?” the man asked.

  “No. Sorry. Just a crick in my neck,” I said, raising one shoulder and rubbing under my collar. I sensed Valentree pausing and imagined his eyes on the back of my head.

  “I get those, too,” the man said. “Hazard of the trade, I’m afraid. My wife, Bergitta, used to recommend oil of eucalyptus. Worked like a charm, but no one wanted to sit next to me. Terrible strong smell, you see?” He laughed loudly. “By the way, I’m Gus Westerholm from Reuters.”

  “How do you do?” I gave him a weak smile, hoping he hadn’t drawn Valentree’s attention, and slowly faced forward, the constable having moved up to the next row by then. I accepted the pile of papers from the woman on my right, took one, passed the rest to Westerholm, put on my glasses, and concentrated on the press statement, hoping that he hadn’t noticed that I’d neglected to give him my name.

  “I want to begin by saying that it’s early in the investigation and we don’t have all the answers,” Commissioner Hanover said, “but we want to give you an update of the incident that took place early this morning and try to correct any misinformation that has been reported so far. The Serious Crime Unit continues to investigate the circumstances that led up to today’s slashing of twenty-two-year-old Alicia Betterton. To the best of our knowledge, the murder took place between one and two a.m. on the beach adjacent to the house of the decedent’s uncle, New Jersey Judge Thomas L. Betterton, on the south side of Tucker’s Town Road in Saint George’s Parish. The family has identified the body.

  “The Bermuda Police Service was notified of the existence of the body at two twenty-nine a.m. by a house guest of Judge Betterton. Our crime scene team spent the remainder of the night and all this morning processing the scene and collecting evidence. We are waiting for a report from the Forensic Support Unit. Our investigators also spent the remainder of the night interviewing witnesses. We have approximately seven investigators on this case, led by Chief Inspector A. M. Tedeschi under the supervision of Superintendent Jonathan Bird and Deputy Commissioner Allan Mumford. As we are already working with Scotland Yard on prior murders here, our British colleagues will provide additional input and recommendations as relates to this case.” He nodded toward a tall, strikingly beautiful woman who was standing in the corner. She had straight dark hair that curved toward her jaw; under thick bangs were a pair of large pale blue eyes outlined in black.

  “It is important to note that we are still seeking information on this case, as well as the others, and ask the public’s assistance,” Hanover continued. “If anyone has anything to contribute, we ask them to call the following number, which is also on the screen behind me.” He announced the number.

  Two dozen hands went up when the commissioner concluded his statement and several reporters yelled out their questions.

  “Is this another Jack the Ripper slaying?”

  “Has the investigation changed in any way given the prominence of the family involved?”

  “How long was Ms. Betterton in Bermuda?”

  “Have you made any progress on the prior cases?”

  “Was she a prostitute, too?”

  The commissioner was patient, taking some questions, declining to answer others, and for the most part ignoring the aggressive outbursts. “We believe Ms. Betterton died from a loss of blood when her throat was slashed. An autopsy will confirm the cause of death. While on the surface it may seem similar to the manner in which the other victims have died, there are significant differences in the circumstances of the victims’ lives and in the details of the murders themselves.” He pointed to one reporter and declared with some pique, “We devote the same attention to all crimes on the island and do not alter our processes in light of the status of the individuals involved.”

  “Who did you say discovered the body?”

  I hoped it was one of the questions that the commissioner would disregard, but my luck had run out.

  “I didn’t say,” Commissioner Hanover replied, consulting the papers in front of him, “but the person who called in the incident was a house guest of Judge Betterton.”

  “What’s his name?”

  The commissioner looked up from his papers. “Her name is Jessica Fletcher. She’s a crime writer from the States.”

  I slumped down in my seat and tugged on the bill of the cap, dipping my head as far forward as I could. I must have resembled a turtle.

  “Do you have a photo?”

  “We don’t, but I imagine in these days of Google that it won’t be very difficult for you to find one.”

  The Reuters’ reporter next to me stood up and called out: “Wouldn’t we be better off with the FBI than Scotland Yard?”

  The woman in the corner, who had been leaning against the wall, raised her head and glanced around the room, her pique at the question obvious on her face.

  “As a self-governing British Overseas Territory, Bermuda, whilst independent, has access to all the government offices of the United Kingdom, including Scotland Yard,” the commissioner replied. “The Yard is a world-renowned criminal investigation organization, easily on par with the Federal Bureau of Investigation in the States. I see no reason to reject the assistance of Scotland Yard, which has been so generously tendered. Any more questions will be taken by Superintendent Bird and Deputy Commissioner Mumford later today. Please check with the duty officer for the times of the briefings.”

  Commissioner Hanover gathered his papers and stepped down from the podium, flanked on either side and front and back by Constable Valentree and three others who pushed aside the reporters to clear a path for the commissioner to leave the room. I pocketed my pad and pen and stayed at my seat as the members of the press milled around, some interviewing one another, others standing before a camera and giving a recap of the press conference.

  Wary of being recognized, I glanced around like a thief about to be caught in the act, and saw a familiar face. It was the redheaded man from the airport. He was moving swiftly up the aisle, sliding between those who had paused to talk and cutting off others who were waiting patiently for an opportunity to exit their row. I tried to follow him but was stymied at every turn. By the time I was able to reach the landing outside the door, he was gone from sight.

  Once on the street, I lingered until the throng of reporters had dispersed, my eyes searching in vain for the redheaded man. Frustrated, I turned toward a line of blue and yellow squad cars parked at the curb, approached one of the drivers, and explained in the most general terms who I was. The officer invited me to sit in the front, which I happily did, and he drove off.

  Once clear of Headquarters Hill, I allowed myself to take a deep breath; however, my relief was not to last long.

  Chapter Five

  A television va
n, complete with a tower to accommodate a satellite feed, was already parked on Tom Betterton’s street when I arrived at the house in the police cruiser. Fortunately, Adam had arranged for security men to block both ends of the circular driveway to keep the press from knocking at the door or walking around to the back. He had another man posted on the gravel path near my cottage to prevent any intruders, press or otherwise, from coming up by way of the beach.

  Over the years, my experience with the press has been hit or miss. I’ve met many trustworthy reporters—Evelyn Phillips, editor of the Cabot Cove Gazette, for instance. We may butt heads over whether information should be published before the police have time to process it, but she’s a sensitive and skilled journalist who honors the need for privacy by a victim’s family and whose stories are always fair and unbiased. Unfortunately, I have also encountered reporters who were not so responsible, who lied to gain access to a witness or who presented “facts” that slanted the story, or whose lack of respect for the people they pursued for comments led them to behave in an aggressive, even uncivilized manner. I hoped that would not be the case here.

  “The police don’t want me to leave the island either,” the judge told me when we sat down together later that afternoon in the white living room. Norlene had brought us drinks—a Scotch for Tom and a lemonade for me—and a plate of cold hors d’oeuvres left over from the party. Adam was outside instructing the guards.

  I’d had an opportunity to grab a few hours’ sleep at the cottage, leaving me greatly refreshed and more clear thinking than I’d been earlier in the day. I’d canceled my flight home, and Tom had assured me I was welcome to stay.

  “Do you want to go back to New Jersey right away?” I asked.

  “I’m torn,” Tom replied, jumping up and pacing in front of me. “I want to bury Alicia in the family plot at home, next to her mother and her father. She deserves that and I’ll make sure it happens. But the police here won’t release her body yet. That alone would keep me here even if they hadn’t told me to remain on the island.”